Anniversary
by lovethemajor
Summary: It came around every year. Some years were worse than others.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Present day. Makes reverences to past eps. I don't own any of these lovely people.

Anniversary

She knew where to find him. She always knew where to find him on this night.

The lights of the tavern on 17th street cast a muted glow on the otherwise dark, drizzly surroundings. Finding a space to park on the street, she navigated the uneven sidewalk to the door of the Cock and Bull, finger-brushing the rain out of her hair as she entered. It was closing time, and Mike caught her gaze as he lifted dark wooden chairs up onto gouged wooden tables. He nodded toward the booth in the back right corner.

"He's been here a while. I have his keys."

"Thanks, Mike," she said, and a brief smile of understanding passed between them.

The brown haired man's table contained a shot glass and a pair of elbows with hands that were cradling his head. Her trench coat rustled as she slid into the seat opposite him, and he slowly looked up.

"Foster. Wanna drink?" His eyes were dull, and there was no welcoming smile.

"No thanks, Cal. Actually I've come –"

"Well, _I_ wanna drink!" He gestured to Mike, who shook his head and said, "Sorry Cal. Closing time."

Cal looked ready to argue, and Gillian placed a hand on his arm. "Come on, Cal. Let's go home."

"Don' wanna go home. Rather stay here."

"Do you have Emily tonight?"

Cal closed his eyes, trying to remember. "I don' think so. Think she's at a friend's."

"Okay, then. Let's go get some fresh air, shall we?" Gillian stood up and waited for Cal, who rose, grumbling.

"Always get your way, don'cha? Who put _your_ name on the door?" He weaved in a small circle like a top's last spin, and Gillian latched firmly onto his left arm.

"You want some help with him?" asked Mike, bringing over Cal's keys.

Gillian glanced at Cal, who was attempting a more erect posture. "I think I've got him, Mike. Thanks."

"Sure thing." Mike went over and held the front door open, and Gillian maneuvered Cal through the wood-framed doorway.

The rainy night air seemed to disorient Cal, and he swayed alarmingly. Gillian stopped their sideways movement, and draped Cal's left arm across her shoulders. She grabbed his hand with her left, and wrapped her right arm around his waist. "Let's do this the traditional way," she murmured.

Her car wasn't far, and she maintained a firm hold on Cal's waist as she fumbled to unlock the passenger's door with her left hand. "We'll pick up your car tomorrow," she said, as she maneuvered him into the passenger's seat. He flopped against the seat back, and lolled his head toward the window. She gave him a brief smile through the glass, and went around to unlock her side.

Driving through the 3am streets of the city, Gillian thought Cal had gone to sleep – passed out was more like it. But at the second stop light, he rolled his head her way and asked, "How d'ja know where to find me?"

"How do I always know where to find you, Cal? It's where you are every year.

"Good point, luv." He sighed. "Guess I'm just a fuck-up, yeah?" He rolled his head back over to gaze dully out the window, but not before Gillian saw the, albeit drunken, look of shame.

"You're _not_ a fuck-up, Cal."

"Yeah, I am. I fucked up my mum's suicide. I fucked up my marriage. I don' spend enough fucking time with Emily. I even fuck up _you._" He clamped down at that, and closed his eyes.

"Cal." Pausing for the right words, Gillian laid a hand on his sleeve. Every year on the anniversary of his mother's suicide, they went through this. Some years it was worse than others. If they'd had a particularly hard case, or if he was going though a rough time with Zoe, he'd end up at Mike's in a state of self-flagellation. This year, with Zoe trying to take Emily away to Chicago, and his life balanced at the end of a muzzle of a gun, had been especially brutal.

Squeezing his arm gently to get his attention, she said, "Cal, I'm going to tell you what I tell you every year. You WERE NOT responsible for your mother's suicide. No one could've seen it coming. Microexpressions hadn't even been _discovered_ yet, and just because you discovered them _after_ the fact does, in no way, make you responsible. I wish I could ink another tattoo around your arm that says, 'It was not my fault' and make you recite it each day." She glanced sideways at him, and saw that he now had his eyes half-open, facing front. She put both hands on the wheel.

"As for your marriage," she continued with a sigh, "remember, it takes two. I think you and Zoe could be poster children for hardheadedness, and you both never wanted to back down. We all make mistakes in a marriage, Cal. Don't you think I blame myself for what happened with Alec and me? I've been trying to get past that, though, and concentrate on the things I _can_ make a difference in."

"You wear pink," Cal whispered with a small smile. His eyelids closed.

"Yes, I do. And it feels good." Gillian sent a small smile back, and took hold of his left hand. "You're doing a great job with Emily, Cal. She is a wonderful child – perceptive, warm-hearted, stubborn, empathetic, intuitive… In many ways, she's just like you. "

As she pulled into her parking space, she noticed that Cal's mouth was open, and he was taking deep, drugged breaths. Sighing to herself, she went around and opened his door. She had to shake him a few times before he blearily opened his eyes.

"Come on, Cal. Let's go inside." She pulled on him and got him up and out, then again wrapped his arm over her shoulders and her arm around his waist. They were halfway up the stairs when he said, "This isn't my house."

"No, it's not. I didn't think you should be alone tonight."

"You're too good to me, luv," he said as he woefully shook his head, causing both of them to lose their balance somewhat on the stairway.

Steadying them, and continuing forward, Gillian soon had Cal propped against the wall of the condo while she unlocked the door. The living room light she had left on beckoned warmly.

"I don' deserve ya, luv," muttered Cal, as Gillian peeled him away from the wall. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she looked at him a moment before pulling him into a hug. He leaned heavily into her, and rested his head against her neck, sloppily returning the hug.

"You deserve a lot more, Cal," Gillian whispered, as she turned and led him inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Her intent was to lead him straight to the spare bedroom, but that thought was derailed by Cal gasping "Where's your –" and Gillian altering course. She propelled him quickly into the bathroom, where he lurched over to the toilet and promptly threw up the considerable contents of his multiple shots. She steadied him with one hand, and held his head with the other, until he finally came to a gasping, sweating halt. Spent, he sank to his knees, then his side, and Gillian was just able to grab a towel from the rack and shove it under his head before the brown hair made contact with the gray tiled floor. Cal groaned and closed his eyes, and Gillian flashed back to other years, other "anniversaries" with him passed out, cheek to tile. She got a wash cloth from the closet and wet it down with cool water. Sitting beside him, she wiped the cloth over Cal's sweaty face and spattered mouth, speaking soothing nonsense to him all the while. Then she sat back and ran a hand over Cal's forehead, smoothing his wet hair back, and said, "Cal, we've got to get you into bed."

Barely rousing, Cal mumbled "Stay 'ere."

"No, Cal. If you were to spend the night on this floor, you would be sore and stiff and cold by morning. Can you try to help me get you to bed?"

No response. Then an arm slowly raised, and Gillian grasped it, and little by little they got him to his feet. Gillian supported most of his weight as they made the turn into the bedroom, and when she deposited him onto the white comforter, he slid over sideways with a sigh. She removed his shoes, then lifted his legs onto the bed. By pulling and tugging, she managed to get his suit coat off, as well as his dress shirt. She left his t-shirt, pants and socks on, and settled the unoccupied half of the comforter over him. He lay on his right side, and for him, the night had ended. She sat for a moment, out of breath, watching him sleep and thinking he looked like a new kind of sandwich: Cal wrap. Then, grabbing pink floral pajama bottoms and matching top, she slowly proceeded back to the bathroom.

She cleaned the toilet, washed her hands and face, and did a quick swipe of the brush around her teeth.

Then she retrieved a yellow plastic pail from her bathroom closet, and, heading back into the bedroom, positioned it by the upper portion of Cal's bedside. Cal was sleeping the sleep of the dead, and she took a minute to press her lips against his left temple, then went around to the other side of the bed. She lifted the blanket and sheet and slipped in, giving herself the excuse that she wanted to be close if he needed her in the night. She slid across the cool bottom sheet, and reached her arm over the comforter, snuggling up to his back. The morning, she knew, would bring a granola mix of hangover, guilt, self-recrimination, walls, gratitude and reassurance. She knew the script by heart.

In a while her heart rate slowed, and she was beginning to feel warm and drowsy. His deep, regular breaths were soothing, and before too long, hers were playing a duet.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. They propel me forward, though I often wonder if I measure up; I'm _awfully_ new at this. Wasn't quite ready for their morning to properly begin yet, so…

She had planned to let him sleep as much of last night's performance off as possible. So at 8:22 when she awoke to sun filtering in the room, she was elated to find him still beside her. True, he had rolled over and had an arm flopped across her waist, losing the comforter, and his breath smelled like the inside of a week-old garbage bag; still, she was glad he wasn't yet awake. Carefully, she inched herself out from under his arm, and softly padded over to the window, easing down the shade. She then proceeded to the bathroom, where she shook a couple aspirin into her hand, and ran water into a small beveled glass. These she carried into the bedroom, and was just depositing them on the bedside table when she heard a groan and watched a green version of Cal Lightman sway to a sitting position . She had time to blurt, "Are you going to be sick?" and kick the bucket under him before he let loose with a smaller performance of last night's stomach opera. She supported his head over the bucket until she was reasonably sure he was done, then rested her hand on his back as he sat up. A flushed face had replaced the green tint, and Cal had obviously seen better Saturdays.

"Bloody hell," Cal ground out miserably as he pushed his palms into his eye sockets to try and calm the power drill that was driving holes in his skull. Gillian rubbed his back gently, and said "Stay here a minute." She went into the bathroom and grabbed a clean wash cloth, wetting it with luke warm water, and headed back to Cal. He was in roughly the same position, though had slid over a bit so as not to be staring into last night's bourbon. Gillian moved the bucket to the corner of the room, then sat back down beside him. She gently pulled his hands from his eyes, and ran the cloth over his face, eyelids, mouth and neck. He sat immobile, head lolled slightly to the right, eyes closed, the red flush retreating to a wan pallor.

"Cal, do you think you can sleep some more?"

He opened his eyes and blearily looked at her. Then he briefly took in his surroundings before sighing and glancing away.

"Gotta hit the loo. Might need some 'elp," he replied, somewhat weakly.

"Of course," Gillian said, and they slowly stood him up. She waited while he tried to steady both his body and his vision, then they gradually made their way down the hall, her hand holding onto his left arm. At the doorway to the bathroom, Cal looked at the floor in front of Gillian and said, "Got this part, luv" and she let go and closed the door behind him as he shuffled through. With Cal occupied, Gillian went into the kitchen to put a kettle of water on.

When she returned, Cal had made his way back to the bedroom and was sitting down on the side of the bed. Gillian crossed the room and silently handed Cal the aspirin & water. He took them without looking at her, and when he was done, set the glass on the bedside table. He was about to ease back down on his side when Gillian said, "Take off your pants, Cal."

Cal looked askance at Gillian before replying, "I can think of better times, luv."

Gillian laughed – which felt foreign, given the circumstances – and swatted him on the shoulder.

"No, Cal, not _that_. Since you can get all the way under the covers now, there's no reason why you still need your slacks on. Plus, you're perfectly capable of taking them off yourself, socks too. " She discreetly moved over to the dresser and pretended to be looking for something in one of the drawers.

All Cal really wanted to do was inch back down, but he did what Gillian asked, grimacing and groaning. After flinging the last sock onto the pile, he eased the covers down and stiffly crawled underneath. An "Oy, my bleedin' 'ead" escaped him as he reached the pillow, and he groaned pitifully. "Make the room stop spinnin', Foster."

Gillian sat down on the bed at his waist, and gently stroked his forehead. He relaxed under her hand, and shortly she could see his facial lines were starting to soften. As his features evened out, all the things she was going to say, all the versions of "Don't you think you've punished yourself enough, Cal?" retreated to the back of her mind. She didn't think he'd be receptive yet to dialogue, and she didn't want to make him feel any worse. With a whispered, "I'll be right back," Gillian got up from the bed and went into the kitchen, turning the kettle off. Then she went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and returned to the bedroom. Cal was laying on his left side, and she quietly swung her legs under the covers, and over next to him. She slid an arm under his neck, and eased his head onto her shoulder, hoping his forehead against her neck would provide some headache relief. Cal sighed and murmured "Thanks, luv" as he looped an arm around her waist and snuggled in.

Gillian pressed a sideways kiss against his forehead, then settled down to hold Cal through the rest of act two.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N With thanks to _drl_…

Cal was running a sleep marathon, and wasn't any too happy when Gillian shook his shoulder at half past two, miles from the finish line.

"Cal? It's time to return to the world of the living and have some lunch." Gillian was standing beside his bed, arms crossed, looking down at him. She had spent a few minutes studying his face and his breathing, and decided he looked well enough to return to reality. Not a _pain free_ reality, perhaps, but one that needed to be faced. She thought the worst of the physical discomfort he had put himself through was over, and would be replaced by an equal dose of aches, denial and shame.

Cal pried an eye open and said, "Not hungry, Foster. You eat, yeah?"

"Not gonna fly, Cal. You probably haven't eaten in a good 24 hours, and your body fluids have got to be at low tide. While you're showering and getting dressed, I'll fix some eggs. It's what you always seem to handle best after a night on the bar stool." She smiled slightly and ran a hand lightly along his cheek, offering no other sympathy. "Your clothes are here on the bed, and there's a towel."

Cal grimaced, and searched the fog for a proper retort. By the time he found one, Gillian had left the room.

When Cal made his entrance, there were two plates of scrambled eggs, wheat toast with strawberry jam ("fruit helps your hangover, Cal"), and two mugs of English Breakfast tea ("yes, Cal, it's from England") facing each other on the table. A glass of orange juice and a bottle of B vitamins stood sentinel by Cal's plate.

Gillian took in Cal's appearance as he approached the table. His hair was spiky and tousled from the shower, giving him a younger, almost vulnerable look. The smell of her botanical shower gel rose above the smokiness of his pants and shirt that she had aired out late that morning. His face still looked haggard, more pouches than usual under his eyes, and his stubble stood out in stark contrast to his pale skin. His free-swinging walk was replaced by a lesser-impact version, as if he was afraid to dislodge any of his aching gray matter.

"Foster, I – "

"Sit down and eat, Cal. We can – and will – talk after you get some energy in you. Will you pass the pepper?"

Their lunch progressed much like any meal between them - a combination of business and banter, albeit at a lower volume and key. They talked about a possible extortion case they had coming up, and Cal mentioned that he might let Loker ride shotgun with him on this one. Gillian knew that it was Cal's way of repaying Loker for his part in the hostage crisis, but refrained from comment. Cal rested his head on his left hand throughout most of the meal , and his eyes were at half mast. But he managed to eat the majority of his eggs, one slice of toast, and down two cups of tea plus the orange juice. By the end of the meal, he had regained some color, if not much enthusiasm. He glumly fidgeted with his napkin, and it was clear that he wasn't looking forward to "the talk."

Gillian stood and collected the plates. "Cal, why don't you go stretch out on the couch? I'll be through here in a sec."

Cal stood up too quickly, his face registering a mixture of pain, defiance, and a larger, underlying portion of guilt. He felt achy, hostile. "Oh, so it's time for my punishment now, is it? What'll it be this year? A lecture on how to take better care of myself? 'Beware the evils of alcohol, Cal, it'll rot your liver?' You want me on the couch so you can analyze me, is that it?" Then, quietly, unable to stop himself. "You look forward to this part, do ya luv? Gives ya somethin' to do with your degrees?" He pinched the sides of his forehead together, trying to ease the pounding, and it gave him something to do other than meet her eyes.

The words stung, but Gillian knew they were the product of last night's bender, coupled with the myriad of emotions and events leading up to this day. She tamped down the hurt and threatening anger, and answered evenly, "No, I don't enjoy this part, Cal. Frankly, I never feel equal to the task. Nothing I've said obviously has made any difference, or you wouldn't be here in this shape on this particular day." She paused, arranging her thoughts before continuing. "I'm glad you're here, Cal. I wouldn't want you to be anywhere else feeling this way. You're my friend, and I worry about you. I hurt when you hurt. I thought maybe we could figure this thing out together…" She shrugged, and continued on into the kitchen, trying to slow her increased heart rate.

Cal's bluster lost mass like a pricked balloon. He stood with his head down and fiddled with the back of his chair. "I'm sorry luv. You don't deserve me bein' such a vile bastard. I'll see ya in the livin' room, yeah?" He walked slowly around the corner and headed toward the couch, parking himself on one end and leaning his head back against the cushion.

Gillian rinsed off the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, giving Cal some time to himself. She knew he still felt miserable physically, but it was the underlying hurt that worried her the most. She tried, year after year, to enter the cave and slay the dragon, but it continued to breathe fire and attack Cal. In all her years of training, and all the years of their partnership, she had never been able to erase Cal Lightman's pain, and that continued to be the single biggest regret of her life. Her divorce, and her losing Sophie ranked right up there, of course, at times paralyzing her; but it was her defeat at the hands of Cal's depression and guilt that left her the most bereft. Oh, he would act like he was feeling better when he left today – whether it was the attention to his physical needs , the lessening of his hangover, or just her company, she never knew. But next year, unless things changed, she would be carting herself down to the same tavern and hauling Cal's ass back to her place to sleep it off and – what? Let him know he was loved? Give him a royal bitch session? It certainly wasn't _fix him… _

She had decided to try a slightly different angle this year. Instead of focusing solely on the past, perhaps they could create a plan for the future.

Gillian walked into the living room , watching Cal for any lingering signs of irritation. He had his eyes closed, but opened them upon her approach, and patted the cushion beside him. As she sat down, he wrapped his right arm around her and pulled her into a hug. He held her tight against his chest with both arms, and could feel her relaxing and returning the embrace. They sat that way for a few minutes, melded together out of need, friendship, and something intangible. Finally, he kissed the top of her head, and murmured into her hair, "I'm all yours, luv. Been a bit of a bother, haven't I, but that's done. Whatever you wanna say, I'm listenin'." He kissed her again, then helped her to sit up.

For reasons not entirely known to Gillian, her eyes threatened to fill, and she looked away while willing the tears to stay put. When she looked back at Cal, he had his head cocked to one side, a small smile on his lips. He reached out and stroked her right arm, then sat sideways and curled his legs under him on the cushion, facing Gillian. He propped his head on his hand, looking both tired and intent.

Gillian swung her legs up to face him, then, softly, the words started falling out.

"Cal, you know first-hand what it's like not to be able to fix someone. Even though you may not have had the capacity, or the knowledge, to make that person better, you always thought you should have been able to do it. And we both know it's the guilt from that failure that continues to have a death grip on you." Gillian paused for a moment, looking at Cal's now-closed eyes.

"Well, I'm on a guilt trip of my own, and it also has to do with the inability to save a life. For years, I've watched you punish yourself over the death of your mum. Psychological punishment, physical punishment – you are a master of quiet self-destruction. And I can't make it stop." The hitch in her voice made Cal open his eyes. "I _ought_ to be able to make it stop – I'm much more educated and experienced than you were during your – crisis. I've got _degrees." _She sniffed and swallowed, adding bitterly, "And God knows, I've tried. But I haven't been able to help you like I should."

Cal reached over and took hold of Gillian's right hand, massaging it gently. "You've helped me more than you know, Gill. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, luv."

Gillian jerked her hand away. "Don't, Cal. Don't try to minimize this. I have failed you as a psychiatrist and a friend, at times because I've been afraid to step over the damn _line_, and other times because I just don't know how to cure your pain. You are a tough egg to crack, Cal Lightman, and sometimes it makes me want to _scream_!" Twin tear trails had started down her cheeks, and Cal had to resist the urge to brush them away.

"Each year at this time, everyone tiptoes around you, everyone's afraid they'll feel the lash of Lightman's tongue. Even Emily spends more time at her friend's house, doesn't she? She doesn't want to have you snapping at her and she certainly doesn't like to see you passed out drunk. She loves you so much, but she can't fix you, Cal, and she knows it. Loker, Ria – they _worship _you, even if they don't always show it, and yet they slink away from you like wounded pups. And I'm left to make excuses and make sure you don't drink yourself into oblivion."

"Can I have a word?" Cal asked quietly.

"No. I'm not done." Gillian drew a shaky breath. "So, after I saw that it was going to be 'business as usual' again this year, I decided to try something different for next year. Wasn't going to fail any worse, was I? - No, don't interrupt, Cal." Gillian reached under the cushion on the far right, and pulled out an envelope. "I thought _maybe_, if you weren't in this same depressing city, your thoughts would take on different patterns, and you might, just _might_, be able to get through this easier." She handed the envelope to Cal and then tiredly leaned her head against the back of the couch, preparing to watch as he opened it.

Cal hesitated, turning the envelope over in his hands. He looked up at Gillian, his face missing its usual mask of self-preservation. He lightly touched her face. "I know I'm a cheeky sod, Foster, but I wasn't trying to minimize things. I'm a fucked up mess, aren't I, and that's a fact. But I was telling the truth when I said that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. Every time you've walked into that bar, you have given me a lifeline to hold onto, a place to go when things get totally fucked. A person to give my worthless ass over to, who I know will bring it back from the dead. It's not fair, is it Foster,that I count on you to keep me here? But there you have it. You _have_ saved a life, luv. I didn't, but you did. You _do._ And it's sittin' right beside you."

Gillian sat up and wordlessly held her arms out. Cal slid over and leaned into them, resting his head against her neck, returning the hug. She pressed a wet kiss to a spot between his eyes, then laid her cheek against his forehead, tears seeping onto his skin. The weight she had been feeling had been momentarily lifted, replaced by a warmth that spread throughout her body. No, she hadn't been able to cure him, and she was certain that there were still rough times ahead. But Cal's validation of her efforts, falling short though they did, gave her a tremendous feeling of worth and lightness and hope. And gratitude to this troubled man who was her partner and closest friend.

Gillian whispered, "Sit up," and then she motioned for him to put his legs up, maneuvering him so that he lay along the back of the couch, his head against her left shoulder. She lifted her legs up beside his, and wrapped her arms around him, reveling in the fact that he was _here_, and alive, and they had survived yet another tumultuous anniversary.

For his part, Cal was feeling warm and safe and numb with tiredness. He raised his hand that held the envelope, and murmured, "Still want me to open this, luv?" He felt Gillian's chin move up and down against his head, so he slid his finger under the flap, and took out the contents.

For a moment, not a word was spoken. Cal stared mutely at the two United Airlines tickets to Heathrow Airport, dated approximately a year from today, one bearing Cal's name, the other made out to Emily Lightman. They were for a week's stay in England, and the note that was enclosed said simply, "Tickets are non-refundable, and the time has been blocked off on the work calendar. Thought maybe you might like to show Emily a bit of her heritage. Love, Gillian"

Cal closed his eyes, and fought a war of emotions. Finally, he pulled himself up so he could look Gillian in the eyes, his own face devoid of pretense. "I'll go on one condition, luv" he said, his tone brooking no dissent from his reclining partner.

"And what is that, Cal? Remember, the tickets are non-refundable…"

"The condition is that you accompany Emily and me. I can't go without my lifeline." A bit of Cal's cockiness had returned, and he lay back down against her, saying "Good, that's settled, isn't it. Get your ticket, Foster." He closed his eyes.

Gillian wanted to retort, to regain the upper hand, but suddenly her heart wasn't in it. She smiled and snuggled Cal closer, feeling sleepy and content herself, and said, "Why don't you take a little nap? We'll pick up your car when you wake up."

Cal grunted against her chest, and she could feel him relax against her. She leaned her head against the top of Cal's, and just as she was drifting off, she thought she heard Cal's voice.

"Luv ya, Gill."


End file.
